A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  “What?” Cerys demanded, from behind her cup of coffee.

  Struggling to keep his laughter under control, Wilde pointed to one of the chapbooks. “This is by Fredrick William Slater, isn’t it?”

  Cerys almost dropped her coffee. “How did you . . .?”

  Wilde held the chapbook a little higher, and pointed to it emphatically. “Isn’t it?”

  “Slater’s name isn’t on any of those books. How’d you know it was him?” Cerys went to take another sip of coffee, and then pointed the cup at Wilde menacingly. “And don’t tell me it was a lucky guess. No one in the Legion just pulls the name Professor F. W. Slater out of their hat.”

  “I recognized the writing style, Chief,” Wilde answered. “The guy’s got a pretty distinct voice, you know.”

  “You don’t strike me as the kind of person who makes a habit of reading essays on social philosophy, Max. Mind explaining this happy coincidence to me? Or do I have to get the bucket of water?”

  Wilde gave an expression of jovial terror. “Not Old Truth Maker! Anything but Old—”

  “Shut up, Max, and answer my question.”

  “Alright, alright. He writes for the papers, so I read him just about every morning.”

  “The papers?” Cerys asked. “He’s not a reporter.”

  “No, no, not the newspapers. The broadsheets.” Wilde held up one of the oversized printed sheets he had brought in with him. It resembled a conventional newspaper, but the upper half of the page was given over to large editorials, while the lower half was divided into columns of small-print articles; in many cases, the smaller segments were only a few lines long. “Tit-tat.”

  “Tit-tat?” Cerys asked, bewildered.

  “Right. Tit-tat. Slater’s a tatter.” Wilde was clearly under the mistaken impression that they were coming to some sort of mutual comprehension.

  “What’s a ‘tatter’ ?”

  There was a lengthy pause, as Wilde realized his superior was confused, but not how to help. Somewhat hesitantly, he ventured, “A tatter is . . . someone who does tit-tat.”

  Cerys lowered her face into her hands. She had a deep-seated urge to shoot him. “Max . . . what does ‘tit-tat’ mean?”

  “Oh!” Wilde exclaimed. He held up the broadsheet again. “It’s . . . um . . . Well, it’s tit-tat.” When this answer made Cerys rise half out of her chair with murder in her eyes, Wilde quickly added, “Wait! Wait! It’s like a conversation in print!”

  “What?”

  “Well, the bigwigs, like Professor Slater, publish their opinions on topics of the day. Then they all read each other’s essays and mail in replies, and then those get printed . . . and so on.”

  Cerys paused on the verge of a rant against modern society and how it was conspiring to annoy her. “You know,” she said, clearly surprised, “that almost makes sense, in a mind-numbing kind of way.” She stepped around the desk and snatched the broadsheet out of Wilde’s hands, pointing at the maze of print. “But then, what’s all this here? Don’t tell me ‘Mr. Jervais Mutton’ is the name of some brilliant philosopher, Max.”

  Wilde laughed. “Oh, no, no. Those are all tatters. They’re ordinary people who send in their own comments. Most of them never see print, but the really juicy ones get tossed in along with the ‘professional’ stuff because it’s fun to read.”

  “Fun to read?”

  “Audience loves ’em,” Wilde confirmed with a nod. “Ask me, they’re more popular than the articles they’re responding to. People have whole conversations in print, arguing back and forth.”

  “Conversations? How frequently are these released?”

  “Well . . .” Wilde sat back in his chair and considered the question. “The more respectable printers only do one issue a day, but they tend to be a bit light on the commentary anyway. Most places have a morning and an evening edition, so you can read a comment and a response in one day if you’re lucky.” He leaned forward again, clearly excited at the prospect of explaining something to Cerys. “But the really good ones . . . the houses that print the really juicy arguments . . . they sometimes get in as many as three or four a day. Plenty of tit-tat there.”

  Cerys stared at him, her mouth struggling to form a response. “How?” she finally demanded. “How can they print that much in one day?”

  “Well, there’s the morning edition that people read during breakfast. Then there’s the afternoon edition, which arrives in time for lunch. And finally there’s an evening edition that shows up in time for dinner. Sometimes they even do a late night printing that shows up sometime in the small hours.”

  “Four editions! I’d barely have five minutes to spend reading one. Who has time to read all that, let alone mail in a comment?”

  “Clerks, mostly,” Wilde replied. “Typists and secretaries who have to sit at their desks doing nothing while they wait for assignments to show up. And the idle rich, of course. People who think that having too much time on their hands qualifies them to comment on topics they know nothing about.”

  Cerys was quiet for a long moment. “Almost reminds me of the government.” She stared at the broadsheet and shook her head. “How long do these arguments last?”

  “Days,” Wilde answered. “Weeks sometimes, if they get really heated. So long as the papers sell, the presses keep printing them.”

  “How do they keep track of the arguments?”

  Wilde pointed to one of the boxes of print. “There’s a little code number in the corner. It tells you which topic the reply goes with, and where it goes in the sequence.”

  Cerys was rubbing her forehead with her hand again. “Max, I’m afraid to ask, but why are there strings of letters just sitting in the middle of some of these sentences?”

  “What?” Wilde rose from his chair and leaned across the desk. Cerys pointed to one of the comments, and Wilde burst out laughing. “Oh! They’re just abbreviations, Chief. To save on space. The shorter a comment, the more likely it is to get printed.”

  “So ‘IIMOT’ means . . .?”

  “We pronounce that ‘eye-moth.’ It means ‘it is my opinion that.’ People use it when they’re about to say something really snooty talking about a topic they don’t understand. It’s great stuff!”

  Cerys gave him a look and shook her head. “I can’t believe you actually waste your time with this nonsense.” She glared at the page again. “What about ‘IHN?’ ”

  “ ‘In Heaven’s name,’ Chief.”

  “Oh, honestly, Max!” Cerys exclaimed. “Don’t these people have anything better to do?”

  “Desk jobs, Chief,” Wilde reminded her.

  “And they really care about what Jervais Mutton has to say about rising coal prices?”

  “Nah, Mutton doesn’t discuss commodities. He’s too busy falling over himself to agree with whatever Deacon Fortesque happens to think. Now, Salad Monday, he’s a fun one. He’ll take on five people at once and bring in arguments most of us forgot about ages ago. Frankly, it’s a privilege to watch him in action. He’s an oddball, that one.”

  Cerys had returned to her work, and only half glanced up when she replied, “Oh? Why’s that?”

  Wilde took her cue, and went back to skimming through the pile of pamphlets and tracts he had been given. “Oh, he just doesn’t fit into the usual categories. Most of the time you can read someone and say ‘he’s a socialist’ or ‘he’s a conservative’ or ‘he’s a capitalist.’ With Salad Monday, you can’t do that. He’s all over the place with what he’s doing. Sure, he tends to agree with the lefties, but he’ll blast them out of the sky when they’re saying something stupid. I mean, he’s probably as anti-government as the anarchists, but he has a great time pointing out how stupid anarchism is. He’s just . . . everywhere and nowhere, I guess.”

  Something about the statement caught Cerys’s interest. “Really? Well, who is he then?”

  “Don’t know, Chief. No one does. He’s been around for ages, since tit-tat started, I think. He was already one of t
he big names when I got into it a couple years back. There’re plenty of theories out there, but he’s one of the pen names no one’s been able to crack yet. He’s probably one of those university types, though. He’s always quoting from this or that, and he’s got the time to stay up-to-date on whatever’s going on.”

  “But no one knows who he is?”

  “Well . . .” Wilde hesitated. “You know, it’s funny you’ve got me reading up on Slater, because the current view is that they might be one and the same.”

  There was a look in Cerys’s eyes. “Really? Why?” She slowly rose out of her chair and leaned across the desk at Wilde. “You said yourself that Slater’s got a distinctive voice. Wouldn’t that make it obvious?”

  “That’s the thing. Salad Monday’s got about as neutral a voice as possible. It’s almost distinct in how indistinct it is. The theory is that it’s someone like Professor Slater, who’s got a very recognizable style, trying not to give himself away. And out of all the bigwigs Mr. Salad Monday takes on, Slater’s the one who usually ends up coming out looking the best. He’ll point out Slater’s flaws, but he usually ends up defending the Professor’s argument, with a few revisions. It’s almost like they’re working together. The only problem is, a busy university man like Slater wouldn’t have time for it.”

  “How do you mean?” Cerys asked.

  “Salad Monday’s probably the most prolific tatter ever to tit the tat, if you take my meaning.”

  “Barely,” Cerys replied without an ounce of humor. “Continue.”

  “He writes so much material I’m starting to wonder if he’s actually one person. It seems like he’s got a witty, well thought-out reply to just about every single topic that ever hits print, and he gets them to the printers on the same day, sometimes even by the next issue. And I’ll tell you, Chief, I don’t care how much free time someone has, there’s only so much typing one person can do.”

  Cerys was scribbling notes. “Do you think it might be a group of Slater’s students trying to help give his arguments more authority?”

  “Maybe . . .” Wilde stared at Cerys with growing suspicion. “OK, Chief, I know better than to question, but enough’s enough. Why’s the Legion suddenly interested in F. W. Slater, of all people? I thought he was the socialist we actually liked.”

  “ ‘We’ don’t like any socialists, Max. You know that. They’re dirty, smelly, and untrustworthy, and they usually ask questions ‘we’ can’t comfortably answer.”

  “I know the doubletalk, Chief. But honestly, why Slater?”

  Cerys sighed, a common precursor to any conversation involving an explanation of orders from the top. “Top brass thinks Slater’s trying to undermine the government with his latest batch of essays. He’s launched another round of anonymous pamphlets demanding improved working conditions, health insurance, abolition of a tax-based electorate, and so on. He’s smart enough to not sign his name, but, like you said, he’s got a distinct voice. We’re pretty sure it’s him.”

  “How did he get them past the censor?”

  “They were all printed up independently and distributed anonymously: snuck into mailboxes, left on café tables, the usual subversive drill.” Cerys chuckled. “They even had urchins passing them out on street corners. And you know, no one’s as good as those kids at getting away from Legionnaires.”

  “Oh, I can just see it!” Wilde laughed, his head filled with visions of brown-uniformed Legion policemen running after hordes of street children.

  “Upshot is, we don’t actually know who’s behind it.”

  “But top brass thinks it’s Slater.”

  “Yes,” Cerys agreed. “But what brass thinks is usually wrong.” She rose from her desk and refilled her cup of coffee, mulling something over. “Max, I’ve got an assignment for you.”

  “Whatever you need, Chief,” Wilde answered, eagerly setting aside the pile of pamphlets.

  “Don’t sound so excited. I want you to find out who this ‘Salad Monday’ character is. If he’s connected to Slater, so much the better. If he isn’t, at least that’s one little mystery solved.”

  Wilde rubbed his head. “Chief, I’ve got to be honest with you: I’m not sure where to start. I mean, he’s been around for ages and no one’s been able to find out who he is. Any lead I can think of has probably been tried already.”

  “Has it?” Cerys asked. “Or are you just assuming it has?”

  “Point taken.”

  “Start with the obvious. He’s got to live somewhere, he’s got to eat somewhere, he’s got to write somewhere. And I may not understand how this titter-tatter thing works—”

  “ ‘Tit-tat,’ Chief.”

  “Shut up, Max,” Cerys instructed, before finishing her sentence, “—but somewhere along the line someone has to be getting his comments for print. Find out who, and chances are you’ll find Salad Monday.”

  “The printing houses won’t be happy to give up his name and address, you know.”

  “Take Kendrick with you. Five minutes with him and they’ll give in.”

  “Do I get a warrant?” Wilde asked hopefully.

  “I’ll put in a call,” Cerys answered, and took a sip of her coffee. “Until then, improvise.”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  Several hours later, Wilde was sipping his own coffee outside a pleasant Layer Three café. It was a trendy sort of place, with the intellectual atmosphere preferred by scholars, students, artists, and anyone who mistakenly believed himself to be one of the above. Wilde leaned back in his wicker chair and smiled as he looked around at the crowds of youths at the nearby tables. They were mostly young men wearing casual sack suits and fedoras, though here and there could be seen young women in shirtwaists and long skirts. A few of these women were bored sweethearts who stared into their cups impatiently or chatted with one another as they waited for their boyfriends to take notice of them. Others were female students determined to do more with their education than find a husband, and were engaged in spirited debate with their male counterparts.

  As Wilde’s gaze returned to his own table, it fell upon his dour-faced companion. “Kendrick, don’t you ever smile?”

  “Only when I’m shooting terrorists,” came the reply.

  Across the table, Kendrick Mernil looked like he had swallowed a radish. Inspector Mernil—of the Special Peacekeepers, as he rarely failed to remind you—was seldom comfortable out of jackboots and armor. To be dressed in the same casual clothes as undisciplined students was galling. Kendrick made a face at Wilde and reached beneath his black suit jacket to check one of his pistols.

  “Do you have to do that?” Wilde asked. “You’ll draw attention.”

  “When is your damn friend going to show up? We’ve been waiting half an hour.”

  “It’s been ten minutes,” Wilde replied.

  “And why are we wearing civvies? You know I hate wearing civvies.”

  “You hate not having socialists to shoot at. You’d be happy in a barrel if you were firing at something.”

  Kendrick struggled to argue with this point, and failed. “Well . . . I don’t know what good this is going to do anyway. These blasted students have no respect for anyone in authority. Anarchists, the lot of them, if you ask me.”

  “Shut up and drink your coffee,” Wilde answered, trying not to laugh. Turning to look back at the street, he spotted the young man they were waiting for. “Ah, here he is!”

  The fellow in question was clearly one of the university rabble, and the sight of his mismatched clothes was enough to make Wilde cringe. The young man’s coat was dark green, his vest and baggy trousers brown; yet somehow the colors failed to coordinate. More distressingly, the young man’s tie, while the same green as his coat, was covered in dark spots that were as likely to be ink stains as polka dots. He sauntered across the carriage-filled roadway without a sense of urgency, as tendrils of steam and boiler smoke from the passing vehicles licked at his back and heels. After taking a moment to exchange waves and
handshakes with the other students at the café, he dropped cheerfully into a chair across from Wilde. He gave Wilde an affable smile, ordered a cup of coffee from a passing waiter, and then lounged back in his chair with the ease of a man composed entirely of liquid. Then, as if he was just noticing him, the student slowly turned his gaze toward Kendrick—who sat in plain view across from him—and jumped in surprise.

  “Hey!” the student hissed at Wilde. “What’s this then? What’s the numb on that one?”

  Kendrick looked at Wilde. “The what?”

  Wilde shushed him before reassuring the student. “That’s just Kendrick. He’s glass, Manny, he’s glass. He’s OK.”

  “I’m what?” Kendrick demanded.

  “You’re glass. It means you’re smooth. You’re not . . . um . . . bumpy.”

  “What?” Kendrick repeated.

  “Just shut up and let me do the talking.”

  “Hey, now . . .” Manny was peering very purposefully at Kendrick’s moustache. “He’s a copper, isn’t he?”

  Wilde let out a sigh. “Manny, I’m a copper.”

  “No, you’re a tatter who cops.” Manny fell silent as the waiter arrived with his coffee. He hid behind the cup, peering over the brim at Kendrick like a small animal watching a dog.

  “Manny, I’ll vouch for him: He’s glass, OK? Now, can we move on?”

  There was a long silence as Manny continued to peer out over the top of his cup. “OK. Whadya need?”

  Wilde sighed. “Will you please put the cup down?”

  Manny hesitated for a moment, then looked at Kendrick. “No.”

  “Fine.” Wilde sipped his coffee, not in the mood to argue with either of them. “Manny, I need some information from you. You’re the top tatter I know, so if anyone’s got the info I need, it’s you.”

  Manny snorted, but he finally relaxed a bit and lowered his cup. “Don’t butter me up, Max; I’m not a sticky key. Just post me the titles.”

  “Fine, fine. I need the skinny on Salad Monday.”

  “Ha!” Manny laughed. Then he realized that it was not a joke. “You’re not titting me, are you?”